Dark Days
by NutsandVolts
Summary: "We don't have to reap the fear they sow, friends; as long as we hide our love away, in the good they'll never know."


**Yes , everyone, I'm alive! I wrote this for my roleplay and thought (hope) it's good enough to share. :')**

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"Wiress?" Beetee asked softly, peering into their bedroom. She'd complained of a headache earlier and was sleeping it off; normally, he wouldn't interrupt her rest, but there was mandatory programming on in a few minutes and he wanted to know if she was up to watching it. At the sound of his voice, she stirred and sat up blearily. "Mm…?"

Beetee came to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Wiress simply shook her head, which Beetee took to mean she still didn't feel well, and lay back down; he covered her with the blanket again and kissed her temple, brushing a few strands of dark hair away from her face. "I wouldn't have woken you, but they're showing something important on television in another minute or two, Ress," he told her, still combing his fingers through her hair. "If you'd rather stay in bed, I can tape it for you."

She took a moment to think. "No, no," she mumbled, "I'll watch."

Beetee helped her out of bed; she still seemed a bit out of it, but she nonetheless took his hand when he offered it and allowed him to lead her into the living room, where they sat down together on the sofa. Just as they did, the television came to life, and Caesar Flickerman, the Hunger Games' seemingly eternal host, began to speak to them in earnest about _the _event of the year—the wedding of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.

"Not this again," Beetee muttered under his breath, pressing two fingers into his temple to ward off a migraine of his own. Though he at first found their story inspiring, he now thought the star-crossed lovers of District 12 were rather obnoxious. Not Katniss and Peeta, no; they seemed like a very nice pair from what he could gather from their constant television appearances. No, it was the whole spectacle that the Capitol had made out of them that annoyed him; it seemed to him—though he could be wrong—that Katniss and Peeta were not as enthusiastic about being the talk of the town as they seemed. It annoyed him that the Capitol would not simply leave them alone. Wiress, obviously sensing his irritation, patted his shoulder before leaning into him, and he twined his fingers in her hair.

After a few minutes of chatter, Flickerman and Katniss's stylist, a newcomer to the Games named Cinna, directed the audience's attention to a large screen, where six photographs of Katniss in luxurious wedding dresses were then shown. The Capitol audience was enthusiastic as always, cheering for their favorite gowns and dismissing the rest with boos. The sounds and flashing lights were enough to trigger Beetee's migraine; by the look on Wiress's face, her headache had returned full-force as well. Guiltily, he slid an arm around her shoulders and inclined his head so that his lips touched her hair, murmuring, "I'm sorry. I had no idea they'd be showing something so ridiculous. Though it _is _the Capitol, so I suppose I shouldn't have assumed anything less."

He smiled as he got the giggle he'd been going for. "In all seriousness, though, if you don't want to watch, you're more than welcome to go finish your nap," Beetee added.

After a moment of pondering, Wiress shook her head, her small fingers delicately framing the side of his face. Beetee's smile broadened as he leaned his forehead against hers, close enough for her breathy laugh to fog up his glasses; clumsily, she tried to wipe them clean, only for Beetee to grasp her hands and pull her closer. "Let me guess. You've something more interesting to watch," he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers. Wiress gave another soft laugh, a blush coloring her cheeks.

"Forty-five…"

"…yet I can still make you blush like a fifteen-year-old," Beetee finished, fondly trailing a fingertip along the side of her face. Their lips were mere centimeters apart. "Remarkable, isn't it?"

Only Caesar's crow interrupted their kiss; before their forgotten headaches returned and ruined the mood, Beetee fumbled for the remote, but he had just closed his fingers around it when Flickerman announced joyously, "And that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"

The atmosphere changed in an instant. Whereas before, it was sweet and romantic, tension now weighed heavily over both Beetee and Wiress, the latter of whom had frozen as though paralyzed. Realizing this might be too much for her, Beetee said quickly, "Wiress, dear, why don't you go put the dishes away? I'm sure they're dry."

Stiffly, Wiress nodded, untangled herself from his arms, and tread slowly into the kitchen to do just that while Beetee leaned into the sofa, forlornly watching the screen. He'd been alive for both Quells so far—though he could only remember the Second—and he knew how cruel they could be. And of course, as was his way, President Snow was reminding them now as he spoke from his podium, the ever-present white rose in his lapel:

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, Beetee tried to focus on the opening and closing of cabinets as Wiress—purposely loudly, no doubt—put away the dishes. He'd have loved nothing more than to join her in such distraction, but one of them needed to know what their tributes were up against.

"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

His hands were shaking madly. Wiress was handling the dishware so forcibly some things were bound to have cracked. "Are you all right?" he tried to call back to her, but his voice was stuck in his throat. She wasn't listening, anyway; at least, she was trying her best not to listen as she made the dishes bang and clatter. Beetee refocused his attention on the television just in time to see President Snow slit open an envelope marked plainly with a 75. Withdrawing the note, he read on, without a moment of hesitation, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Beetee had always found the expression _deafening silence _so trite, so cliché, but nothing described what followed more accurately. At least, it was silent until he heard the crash.

Leaping off the sofa, Beetee hurried into the kitchen just in time to see the plates stacked in Wiress's arms drop to the floor, shattering upon impact. Broken bits of porcelain crunched underneath Beetee's shoes as he crossed over to Wiress and put his hands on her shoulders. "Wiress?"

She stared forward, but he knew she didn't see him. Her dark eyes were glazed over, her lips trembled; she was like a ragdoll as Beetee shook her, trying to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. "Wiress. Wiress!"

Nothing. Careful of the glass underfoot, Beetee took her hand and led the limp Wiress back to the sofa, where he sat her down and grasped her shoulders once more. Still she stared forward, not seeing his face or feeling him shaking her or hearing him call her name; she was trapped within her mind, Beetee knew, imagining the horrors she thought she would never have to endure again. The horrors Beetee had promised her she would never have to endure again. Suddenly, though, that _never _became a fifty percent chance; a fifty percent chance Wiress would have to reenter the arena and its horrors once again. His odds were better, Beetee thought, even as he continued to shake her and call her name; with three male victors, his chance of returning to the arena was roughly thirty-three percent.

But it wasn't. Because right then, Beetee decided that if Wiress was reaped and he wasn't, he would volunteer to go in with her.

They were a team. A pair. _Nuts and Volts_, everyone called them. Of course they would reenter the arena together—not that either could win again. Beetee was no fool. He would cut off his right arm before he called Wiress mad, but at the very least, she was unstable, fragile, delicate; the blankness in her stare testified to that. And him? He was as small as he was at age sixteen, with the added disadvantage of being thirty-nine years older. He didn't even have the element of surprise; he was famous for the electrical trap, so everyone would expect him to at least try to recreate it. They were, in other words, doomed. Completely and utterly doomed. Intuitive Wiress must have already pieced together this grisly reality; it was why she'd escaped into her head. But Beetee couldn't have that. He needed her. If they were going to endure this all over again, they would do it together; there was no other way.

"Wiress," Beetee said again, giving her yet another shake. She didn't respond. "Wiress, you have to listen to me. Are you listening to me?"

Of course she wasn't.

"Wiress, they're sending us back in. And…and we won't be coming out this time, I don't think."

Still she did nothing, said nothing.

"But it's all right." Beetee framed her face in his hands, running his thumbs along her cheekbones. No response. "Because whatever happens, we'll have each other. Whatever we have to go through, we'll do it together. Do you understand?"

He needed her to understand. She did not.

"Wiress!" He hated raising his voice at her, but it had to be done. She had to see. He could not go through this alone. "Wiress, you have to listen to me! You have to hear me! They're sending us back in! We're going back into the arena, Wiress. They're going to kill us, we're going to die!"

A whimper escaped her and she bowed her head, trying to hide from him, but Beetee cupped her chin and forced her to look him in the eyes. He could almost see the haze fighting against her consciousness; she was here, but she was scared to be here. He didn't want her to be scared. He ran his fingers through her hair. "But it's all right," he told her again, his voice softening. "It's all right. Because we'll die together."

She shook her head.

"Wiress." He met her eyes again. "Does that scare you?"

Again, she went still.

"Talk to me, Wiress. You can talk to me. You have to talk to me. Are you afraid of dying? Hm?" Beetee asked. His voice was horribly calm; he could be asking for a weather forecast.

Slowly, very slowly, she nodded her head. "Mm-hm."

"Why are you afraid of dying?"

Her lips began to tremble once more, but not with the same mindless fear as before; they trembled because she was trying to form words. She hardly needed to, however; Beetee read her answer in her eyes with ease. "Are you afraid because you don't know what comes next?" he asked gently.

Another nod. Then she whispered, "Aren't you?"

Of course he was afraid. He was petrified. Science told him that there was nothing after death; that once your corpse decayed, you simply ceased to exist. What would nonexistence feel like? Who or what could answer such a question? The unknown terrified Beetee. Not to mention the arena, another largely unknown factor. But to tell Wiress this would frighten her further; he'd spent the entire time he'd known her pushing aside his own fear, because he had to be strong. For her. That was his promise, from the very beginning, ever since her family had died; he had promised he would always be there for her. And suddenly, he realized that feigning fearlessness was not the same as strength, nor the same as loyalty. He had to be honest with her. He owed her that. Nodding, he allowed the tears he'd been holding back to flood his eyes. "Yes, Wiress. I'm afraid. Very. But think of it this way. No matter what happens, we'll still have each other. We'll most certainly die, perhaps brutally, perhaps painfully, but we'll have each other. And…and I think that counts for something."

With her fingertip, Wiress traced the path of the solitary tear that slid down his face and caught it just before it dripped off his chin. Beetee watched as she stared at it. "It's all right to cry, you know," he told her softly.

Again, her lips began to tremble. The tears soon followed. Wiress tucked her head beneath his chin and wept into his shirtfront, and, with no attempt at hiding his own tears, Beetee wrapped his arms around her and held her. Together they rocked, crying silently, wordlessly; what could be said? It was only after television had long since faded to black and the tears had dried on their cheeks that the silence was broken—slightly uncharacteristically, by her. "D-don't leave me," Wiress whispered.

"Never," Beetee mumbled into her hair. "Never."


End file.
